Chemical Kids and Mechanical Brides
by It's Unavoidable
Summary: A good friend will hold you when you're down. A better one will hold you down. Collection of drabbles. Pairings to be: Stenny, K2, Creek, others. Warnings for: possible gore, lots of crazy, and lots and lots of gay
1. Not Scenery Anymore

the title of this collection is from the song titled, funnily enough, 'Chemical Kids and Mechanical Brides', by Pierce the Veil. no copyright infringment intended etc etc etc :P

**Pairings: **Stenny if you have your slash goggles on (and why wouldn't you be with this delicious pairing? :D)

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

Kenny at last found Stan sitting on the railroad tracks, watching the wind push the trees. He was too pale to be peaceful, too still to be angry.

"Sup?" He asked, though his hood muffled it into 'Huph?'

Stan shrugged, not taking his eyes away from the swaying trees.

"You'll think I'm a faggot, dude." He said. Kenny grinned an unhappy, ironic sort of grin.

"Dude, I'm not Cartman. You can talk to me." He was sort of insulted Stan thought he'd say something like that. Being an asshole was all Cartman's gig, not his.

Stan squinted into the distance and bit his lip. Kenny wished, just for once, people would stop treating him like their confession dumpster. He loved his friends, sure, but they had a tendency to tell him all of their emotional shit with this look in their eyes like he was just there as scenery. He was so sick of being scenery.

"Kyle's moving." Stan said at last. His voice was unsteady.

Kenny swallowed. He had known it was something big, something important. And thought of life without Kyle was aching and sad.

"I'm sorry, man." He mumbled. Stan shrugged, his face desolate.

"Nothing you can do, unless you can teleport all the way back from California." He sounded sarcastic and harsh, keeping his eyes on the tossing branches. It was like he didn't even see Kenny, couldn't even hear him talking.

"Yeah." Kenny said, not even bothering to hide the bitter note in his voice. His parka would do that for him, if Stan's apathy didn't. They were trustworthy that way.

Except somehow neither did.

"What's wrong, dude?" Stan asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the tees to look at Kenny.

"I am here, you know." He said, acidic. Stan frowned. He hadn't understood. They _never fucking understood._

Something in Kenny's belly burst into flame with all the power and finesse of an atom bomb. _Years _of pent-up frustration, of misunderstandings, of being forgotten and let down and left out, of just generally _being Kenny_, exploded inside him.

"I said, I am here." He snapped, yanking back his hood. His gesture might seem small to an ordinary passerby, but it was monumentally important to anyone that knew anything. The rage and disappointment and bitterness were snapping along his nerves like electric current.

"I'm here, you motherfucker, and you guys just don't seem to care." He continued. He viciously loved the way his voice sang in the air, dull knives on piano wires. It was free, and predatory, and damnit he wanted someone to listen to _him_ for once.

"Kenny, I-," Stan started to say. Kenny cut him off with a hiss. He half hated himself for doing this when Stan was so vulnerable, so sad, but the guilt was only more fuel for the vindictive flames eating their way up his throat. He was a hawk halfway through its dive, a train hurtling off its tracks, the lit fuse touching dynamite. He couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, not for anything.

"You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you, and fuck Kyle, and fuck Cartman, and fuck the whole damn world. You think you're all alone, so sad since Kyle's moving away." Kenny took a deep breath, tilting his head back to look down on Stan. He felt restless, _reckless_, helpless and powerful at the same time. Stan was staring at him, really looking at him, with shock and other emotions that _Kenny_ had inspired, that were connected only to Kenny, were not someone else's leftovers. And fuck, it felt so good to have Stan's attention, all of it, on him, and only him.

"But you know, you aren't the only one who'll miss Kyle. I will too! And Kyle isn't your only friend." Kenny wouldn't have stopped himself now if the president of the United States had walked up, personally delivering a check for a trillion dollars. This was the truth spilling out of his mouth, crystallizing out of the pool of years of being second best. Because that was what he was, wasn't he? Second, always and forever, in everything. And maybe he couldn't help being a little selfishly glad that Kyle was going, just so he could have Stan all to himself.

Well, not now. He had Stan's attention and he wasn't ever going to let go.

"I'm here. I'm real, ok?" He took a step back, the energy in him cutting off as suddenly as it had poured forth. And now there was room for worries and regret in him, the emotions welling up to replace the emotional void the anger had left. What was Stan thinking? Had Kenny gone too far, revealed too much?

Stan sat with his mouth open and his eyes wide, the picture of someone stunned beyond rationality. The trees that Kenny had been second too swayed behind him. Their needled branches made rushing noises that only accented the silence.

"Dude?" he asked at last. Stan's wide eyes had taken on a shell-shocked cast that was scaring Kenny. He had only wanted acknowledgment, attention. He hadn't meant to do anything bad.

Stan blinked, coming back to life. The glazed look in his eyes disappeared and Kenny heaved a sigh of relief. He'd rather be scenery than hurt one of his friends. Things could go back to normal now and they wouldn't ever mention this again, even if Kenny would remember this as one more in a long line of failures.

And the Stan took two steps and wrapped his arms around Kenny.

Kenny hissed out a breath. He knew what this was. Stan and Kyle, they used these all the time. he had seen them. These were best-friend hugs. The kind that made him feel lonely just because he would never have someone to share them with.

It felt like justice, having one now.

"I'm sorry, dude." Stan whispered, before stepping back. Kenny looked at him. And blinked. And breathed.

* * *

**a/n**

is my consumate love for kenny obvious? i think it is! :D


	2. Sick Addiction

**Pairing: **one-sided K2

**Warning: **Short story is short. Angst and insanity ensue. i think those are all specialties of mine D:

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

He sometimes thought that he liked the pain.

When it all became too much, when the memories of Kyle laughing with _her_ wouldn't stop playing like a movie behind his eyelids. When the ache in his ribcage became so much that he curled up on himself like a sow bug. When the tears dripped like sullen rain onto his ragged, dirty sheets.

That's when he felt the most alive.

The others, the nameless, the faceless, boys and girls alike, they were props. Stand-ins. Insufficient, but all that he had. So he used them, and threw them away. He knew Kyle didn't like it, saw the way his eyes tightened when they cried in their corners, but Kyle didn't know.

And besides, he would replay the look in his mind to bring more tears and then everything would shine like fine, broken china and jagged bottle glass for one moment while his whole soul cried out for forgiveness. And he would breathe and know he was alive. Emotional masturbation. It was sick and he loved it.

And no one would ever know.

Because, in the deeper parts of him that were dark and had claws and teeth, he knew that he wouldn't ever tell Kyle. He knew that if Kyle said yes, if by some miracle he wasn't rejected, then he would be happy. Happier than he could comprehend. For a while. Until that airy palace fell apart, until the relationship collapsed like relationships always did. Entropy. It was a scientific law, and weren't those things practically scripture? Better, because at least you could trust gravity to bring you down. Praying had never gotten him anywhere. Not even down.

And he also knew that when Kyle rejected him, when he apologetically told him that there was no chance in hell, the emotional low would be… excruciating. And he would feel so alive. For a short while. And then Kyle would be more careful around Kenny, more careful not to hurt his feelings, careful of the little faggot with a crush on him. And he didn't want that. He wanted to be broken, to be ridiculed, to be abused and neglected and most of all to be hurt.

Because when he cried, when he beat his fists against the uncaring walls and screamed his pain to the sky, he was alive.

* * *

**a/n**

long, cheerful story was long and cheerful :D *blatant lies*

**it's been pointed out to me that i do not have any sort of disclaimer. its because i don't think that matt n trey give a shit, not cause i'm lazy. you guys believe me, right? **


	3. Bottles on the Floor

Pairings: none

cartman angst, because i love him almost as much as i love everyone else in South Park

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

_Life,_ Cartman thought, _is a balancing act._

He let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes. He hated the noise, but a party was worth the free booze. He always got invited, of course. He had connections, the kind that came from a talent for listening, a camera phone, and a few carefully worded talks. The parties he was invited to never get the cops called on them. People liked that.

"Life's just a metric fuckload of shit." He murmured to no one in particular, draining the bottle in his hands and letting it roll off his palm onto the floor.

The thing he loved about booze is… Well, there wasn't much. Cleanup was a bitch and a half. Hangovers were three separate bitches all on their own, possibly more if the drinks were fluorescent colored. But the buzz was more comfortable than being sober.

_We're always scrambling to get out of the way of the next bomb to drop. Praying it won't hit us. And when it does, no one cares because they can already see the next one coming. _

He opened his eyes and caught sight of a pair making out by the door. He squinted disinterestedly to see them better.

Then he stood up abruptly and walked over to them. They broke guiltily apart at his approach and stared at him.

"Go somewhere else before someone notices." He told them flatly.

The two boys nodded, and the taller one pulled his companion away. Cartman pushed open the front door and ignored magnificently the couple making out on the porch and the lone drunk on the lawn.

When he was sure none of them were listening he pulled out his phone and tapped in a number. It rang twice and then with a click was picked up.

"I'm out. Do whatever you like." He hung up before the person at the other end could say anything and slipped his phone into his pocket. He nodded to the lone drunk, again magnificently ignored the couple, and started down the sidewalk. As he went, the sound of sirens started to echo in the distance.

* * *

**a/n**

cartman, you silly boy. the gay guys are probably still in the house! tsk tsk, dont leave them there if you're going to let the cops come


	4. City Transit

to make up for the piece of shit that was the last drabble :P an experiment in the second person!

these POVs are Stan, Kyle, and Cartman, but not necessarily in that order :D id love to know what order you guys think they are!

Pairings: could be Stenny, K2, or Cartman/Kenny, if you want to see those

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

You don't think anyone can remember when Kenny stopped being a slut.

Sometimes you see Kenny standing next to a group of girls with their halter tops and short skirts and wonder when he stopped glancing slyly at them, when he stopped walking up and talking to them. It can't have been that long. You don't want to think about the guilt swelling in your stomach if it's been a long time and you just haven't noticed.

You think, in the quiet places at the back of your mind that you rarely visit, that it's been even longer than that.

You hear him called things in the hallways, all the time. Rent-boy. McWhoremick. It took you a while to figure out the city transit one, but you finally got it. A quarter and anyone can ride. It makes your fists tighten defensively every time, but Kenny always touches your shoulder and tells you it's nothing. 'Shit happens,' he says.

But you can see in the tight lines of his shoulders that he hears every word they say. You wonder where he got the strength to keep walking under their stares and words. You wonder if that strength is real. It would break you, you knew, the weight of so many eyes.

* * *

They don't talk about him in front of you, not anymore. Not after the first time you dragged one of them out of the room and threw them down two flights of stairs. It frustrates you, though, when he won't tell you what's going on anymore.

You ask him who says these things to him and he just smiles and says no one. He explains the bruises away. It makes you sick, because even though you wish you could you save Kenny by throwing his problems down the stairs you know you can't. You can't stop the whispering. You can't stop the abuse, the punches and kicks and cuts. You can't, no matter how much you wish you could.

And still, sometimes you catch him looking at his feet with a look in his eyes like maybe he's not there. You wonder what goes on in his head, what thoughts are spinning like planets through his mind. But when you ask him he just looks at you and shrugs with a smile like he doesn't understand.

* * *

It makes you sick, the way they ignore what's in front of their faces.

You look at Kenny some days and see how much of him is dead already. And you don't know exactly when it started but you caught on quickly enough. You watch the words beat like waves against a shore, grinding him down more and more. You see them watching and know they know something is wrong but won't look past the surface.

You admit that Kenny is good at hiding things. He pushes his problems down and down and you seem to be the only one who can see how his smiling face hides his rotting supports. You can see how close he is to collapsing, and you know that when he does he will never get up again.

It's hard, sometimes, to watch him disintegrate and not do anything. But you can't do anything when there's nothing you can do. He won't let you in, and the weight of your hands helping him up might be all it takes to break him apart.

So you sit behind him and them. And you watch how Kenny smiles for them, and you see how he cries when they are not there. You wish you could help him. But you can't.

And it make you sick.

* * *

**a/n**

so, is this sufficient apology for the last one? D:


	5. Jesus, Judas, Our Holy Trinity

Sick and running a delirious fever, this is what you get. insanity

Pairings: Basically any combination you like, but definitely Stenny

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

The door hadn't opened in sixteen thousand, seven hundred four of Kenny's heartbeats. With my head on Kenny's chest, I could hear them. Steady, loud, dependable. Rhythmic. Kyle's breathing somewhere behind my ear was a counterpoint of irregular, sibilant harmony.

Cartman walked in like he always did, sauntering in a perfect one-two-one-two Nazi goosestep. Our Ubermensch. Our own private Hitler, our own charismatic psychopath, our Baal, Samael, our Angel of Death. Percussive footsteps in perfect rhythm.

Kyle stirred with an off-tempo breath, breaking the harmonic of the silent heartbeats-breaths-footsteps.

Cartman settled to the ground. Kenny's heart picked up and I feel him waking as well.

Kyle slides off my back, sitting opposite Cartman, as always. Equal and opposite, a Gandhi to match our Hitler. Except Gandhi was never like Kyle. Kyle was our fiery peacemaker, our icy warmonger, ours. Always ours. Always our seraphic Father.

"Get up, hippie." Cartman says.

Fuck you, I say to Cartman.

Kenny laughs under me, my whole world shaking. He's an earthquake, Kenny. Our Kenny. He's our tsunami, our forest fire, our Lord of Destruction in his orange parka. He's hypnotic like a cliff edge that whispers jump. Addictive.

But I get up.

Kenny stays, sprawled gloriously across the dirty floor. He shines golden against the grit, our Jesus martyred by Judas. And who is he? Who's our Judas, our Son the Betrayer? Who is the serpent in the grass, leading innocent Eve too far into the garden of temptation?

Me.

I'm the double agent, the spy, the backstabber. Kenny's traitorous disciple. He walked on water when all I ever did was rock the boat. Making waves, that's me. But without them, I'm nothing.

Kyle to forgive me, Cartman to command me, and Kenny to crucify.

Kyle and Cartman, the equal opposites, they are perfectly matched. Me, Kenny, we are perfectly mismatched. He is my Jesus, my savior, the one who will die for my sins. I'm the one who killed him. Kyle and Cartman, they watch us from on high, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

They start to bicker again, infighting in the Holy Trinity. Honestly, I'm not surprised. Honestly.

Kenny's spinning dust motes on his fingertips, the divine bastard child. He's too holy for this place, and Judas is jealous of Jesus. I want him on my level. I don't want to be the last and least.

They don't notice when I climb on top of Kenny, too busy waging holy jihad on themselves. Kenny, Jesus, my Lord and Savior, struggles against me. One hand to gag him and another to bind him and Cartman and Kyle never even notice.

Shush, shush, Kenny. It's all going to be fine.

He says something behind my palm, and I smile at his prayers. God, our God, our Cartman and Kyle, they aren't listening. They're too busy for us.

Sing hymns to me, Kenny. I'm you're Lord, God, and Master now.

He nods for me.

Good.

* * *

**a/n**

im going to go die now :P


	6. Fake, Real, Fake

Pairings: none (you could imagine an agonizingly dramatic and angsty backstory with tons of romance and sex, but i give you that anyway (besides the sex), so i don't know. it seems excessive.)

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

"That's _real_ fur." Sacha (hard 'ch', need to remember) whispers in his ear. He lets his head drop to the side onto her shoulder and giggles, high and mocking.

It makes him sad, in the little parts of him that weren't c_ocainebuzz/cheapliquor/cheapfucks_, that the reason they mocked was not the tragedy of the death and loss of an animal and its skin but that someone dares to do something (anything) real _here_. Real doesn't belong in florescent light buzz/glow.

"And she wears that?" he asks with a little lilt to his tone that made Sacha purr vindictively.

"Mmm, she has the legs for the dress." She offers, her fingers running through his hair. It wasn't an offer, no of course not, they were business partners, of a type.

He can see that the girl's legs are scarred, she's hiding them with a pair of sheer tights and an eye-catching dress, high heels to make her legs long and fuckable.

"If she sticks around here, not for long." he murmurs, because even though she's pretty and real and everything he is not, she is in their territory. This was where they worked their street corners, where they had come and forced older ones off the streets and into the alleys to blow crackheads for two dollar bills. This is his catwalk, his night job, and no fake-and-real girl with big eyes is taking it from him.

She looks up and catches their eyes and they know what to do, not because of the (_oh-so_) romantic joining of their souls, but practice keeping others off this street and its ready supplies of open car doors. They hiss in unison, like teakettles, like steam whistles, like the trains on the tracks dividing the town he used to live in. But that was _real_, and real didn't/couldn't belong in the gritty fake feeling he can't seem to scrub off his skin anymore.

She moves on with a slowness that her trembling legs tell him is forced.

"See you later doll." Sacha purred in his ear, waving to an open door and a waiting pale face. He pinches her ass, not a compliment but a reminder to walk like a superstar, because the lights were shining and she had a waiting audience. She shimmied, not for his benefit, and slips through the dark opening and shut the door behind her.

* * *

**a/n**

i neeeeeedz inspiring fic. please. anyone.

**and remember kids, flaming is bad mmkay?**


	7. Resignation

Pairing: Kyle/anyone

sorry for taking so long to update! finals and school, they kill me -.-

enjoy!

**a/n**

* * *

It's just, I've been in love with his for the longest time, you know? Fuck if I can remember a time when he wasn't the one who hung the stars in the sky to me. From when he was a little kid fighting Cthulu with me in that ridiculous kite getup, he was always the one. No one else. Just him.

So when he talks about this chick has a nice ass or that girl is the one, it's like a little piece of me dies. My soul is wrapped around his little finger, even if he'll never know it. I wouldn't have it any other way, even though I wish I could disappear every time I see him with someone else.

Anyone who's been on love can tell you it's no picnic. Giving your whole being to someone to do what they like with isn't fun; it's scary as hell. Even when they have no clue. _Especially_ when they have no clue.

It's funny though. I know I have no chance. And that, weirdly, helps. I don't constantly wonder if he's looking at me because he wants to or because I was just a huge retard. It doesn't stop the what-ifs, though. They still follow me around, asking if maybe I had done something just a little differently, would he love me?

Sometimes, I just spend all day imagining what it would be like if he were to actually love me back. Creepy, I know. You don't even have to tell me how pathetic I am. I know. And it hurts like fucking hell, but I do it anyway. He's that damn addictive.

And the really funny thing?

I just don't care.

* * *

**a/n**

more coming soon!


	8. Next Time

Wow, haven't been on here in a while...

Enjoy!

**A/N**

* * *

He whispers 'I love you', rutting away against your hips, a jagged mass of bone and thin skin and yellow hair.

He whispers other things too, filthy nothings designed to make one moan. You don't remember them a second later, disappearing on a breath. _Mmm, so good, faster, oh god..._

The 'I love you's stay in you mind.

Later, when he turns over and whispers your name you don't stir. You hold your breath and hope this time, maybe this time...

But when you don't reply he carefully gets up and walks out the door.

Next time, maybe next time...

* * *

**A/N**

Perhaps I need to get back in the swing of things...


End file.
